"POISONED?"
cried Harry Warren, with the loud scorn of a man asked to credit the
incredible.

"Poisoned?"
echoed his mother, gazing affrightedly at Lester. Her thin face
blanched and she clutched at the steel chain which held the bunch of
jangling keys as though the suggestion conveyed a sinister imputation
against her household man­agement.

And
Dr. Smalley became angry indeed.

"Stuff
and nonsense!" he almost shouted. "How dare you come here,
sir, and make such ridicu­lous statements? His lordship has been
my patient for years. There is not the slightest ground for your
opinion. It is grotesque and untenable. It amounts to a positive
outrage. I absolutely refuse to accept it."

Lester
looked the enraged little man straight in the eyes. The wrathful
obstinacy he found therein would have amused him under different
con­ditions. As it was, he declined the threatened argument.

"I
have warned you, and I consider that my duty ends there," he
said quietly. "I came to Arncliffe in search of peace. Believe
me, I have no wish to be drawn into a distasteful controversy."

But
Dr. Smalley was not to be pacified.

"You
seem to forget, sir," he vociferated, "that your idiotic
charge contains a grave reflection on my treatment of his lordship,
and implies either that he has killed himself or that some member of
his household has committed murder. Let me tell you, sir—"

Lester
waved a deprecating hand to stay the tor­rent of words. He went
out, closing the door behind him. None of the others offered to stay
his depart­ure. It was only natural that they should take Dr.
Smalley's view of the dispute.

At
the door, he told the waiting gardener to lead the horse to the
stables. Dr. Smalley's gig was standing there, too. For the second
time within the hour he walked slowly back to the village.

Half-way
he met the groom, who seemed to be surprised.

"Is
his lordship better, sir?" inquired the man.

"He
is dead," was the answer. Ere the groom could gurgle forth his
amazement, Lester asked him if he had seen Dr. Smalley.

"No,
sir," he replied.

"Then
the doctor must have heard of Lord Arncliffe's illness from some
other source; he is at the Hall now."

"He
may have come into the park by the West Lodge, sir. It is possible he
drove through on his way home. But for goodness' sake, sir, what did
his lordship die of?"

"Dr.
Smalley has been in attendance on your master. He will assign the
cause of death," was the guarded answer. If Lester could help
it, no hint of a difference between doctors should pass beyond the
confines of the dimly lighted room where lay the mortal remains of
the owner of Arncliffe.

Before
he reached the "Fisherman's Rest" he had made up his mind
to pursue a definite course. His assumption that Lord Arncliffe had
been poi­soned, either by design or accident, rested on no more
firm basis than a guess, a scientific guess, it is true, but without
the essential warrant of thorough investigation. Perhaps he was
mistaken. An old man, possibly somewhat eccentric in his ways, and
with dogmatic views anent food and medicine, might easily have
acquired symptoms calculated to deceive the eye of even an
experienced investi­gator like George Lester.

The
village doctor did not know that his imaginary rival was one of the
most eminent toxicologists of the day. Passing out of Edinburgh
University, after taking the highest honors in materia medial
and chemistry, Lester was at once appointed lec­turer in the
first of these sciences; but no sooner had he laid the foundations of
a most successful career than he imperiled his future by accepting a
trivial appointment on the staff of a West African explora­tion
company. In reality, he enhanced his reputa­tion. His studies in
plant and insect poison, carried on in the Ashanti bush, earned him a
world-wide reputation. Before he was thirty he was famous.

Such
credentials do not render a man bumptious or intolerant. Only he who
climbs the tree of knowl­edge can tell how wary must be each
upward step, and George Lester, the brilliant investigator, hon­ored
by his own government, a recognized authority in the medical schools
of the Continent, was in a curiously humble frame of mind as he
entered the village. He already regretted the momentary re­sentment
of Dr. Smalley's pompous air which in­duced him to utter the
drastic opinion. The little doctor might have been profoundly amazed
were he able to read Lester's thoughts at that moment. Conviction was
rapidly yielding to doubt. There was some chance that, ere night
fell, the author of "Toxic Analysis" would seek the
fiery-eyed Smalley and apologize to him.

But
the circumstances which conspire against human happiness wing their
unseen flight from the most unlikely quarters. "Jolly Jim "
Jones, noted only for his laugh and his taste in beer, was the
un­conscious agent who quickened a lulled suspicion into fresh
activity.

Although
genuinely sorry to hear that the Earl was dead, Jones soon recovered
his wonted buoyancy and proceeded to entertain his guest with
remi­niscences of the deceased peer.

"By
gum! " said he, " I thowt his lo'dship 'ud live till he wur
a hundred. He wur hard as nails, teuf as a bit o' seasoned yak."
(Anglice, oak.) "An' he wur a clever owd bird, too. He knew
summat about everythink. One day he chaffed me wi' more ways o'
hocussing spirits than I'd ivver heerd tell of afore. Gosh! he med me
roar."

And
Jones showed how he roared.

"Another
time," he went on, after regaining his breath, "his
lo'dship walked around my bit o' gar­den, an' he nearly skeered
me into a fit. By gum! he said as how honey could be poisoned by bees
feedin' on rhodydendrums, and henbane or water dropwort mistakken for
parsnips. As for mush­rooms, he called 'em sike neäms I've
nivver had one i' t' house since."

"I'll
take my solemn davy he a'most med me sus­pect my own beer. He
talked about some stuff he called pick-row-somethin'-or-other—"

"Picrotoxin?"

"Ay,
that's it. By gum! Gives man a taste o' that in a pint an' you'll see
things. You doctors mun be rum fellers to quarrel wi', to my
thinkin'."

Such
obvious philosophy required a pull at the beer-handle to soften its
rigor. Lester escaped to his room, sat down at a writing-table, and
set forth on paper, briefly but clearly, his reasons for thinking
that Lord Arncliffe had died from arsenical poison­ing. After the
landlord's curiously appropriate story he had no other course left
open. There might be an inquest, with far-reaching consequences. No
matter what the inconvenience to himself, he could not shirk the
outcome of his own definite pronouncement in the presence of four
persons. So George Lester wrote a short record of the facts, sealed
the paper in an envelope, and gave it to the landlord, with a request
that the latter should place it in his safe.

"You
will not forget the date and the hour?" he said, noticing that
Jones weighed the small package in his hand with a certain air of
doubt.

"Why,
noä, sir," grinned the other. "What isit? It mun be a
bank-note, or summat o' t' soart.""No, it is merely a
statement. You see I was called in accidentally to visit Lord
Arncliffe. In such cases it is always best to be accurate. I have
jotted down my observations. That is all. The paper may not be wanted
again, but you will oblige me by keeping it and producing it if
called on by me."

"Certainly,
sir. I'm a careful man meself. I nivver buy owt that I doän't enter
t' day an' t' price in a note-book. Once I bowt a pig—"

A
maid reported that a fine trout and other deli­cacies awaited
Lester in the coffee-room, so the pig-buying episode was interrupted.
Lester dined alone. There happened to be no other anglers staying at
the inn that day. Propping a London daily paper against the
cruet-stand, he endeavored to read an article dealing with
Anglo-American influences on affairs in the Far East. In a word, he
determined to rid his thoughts of all further speculation about the
dead master of Arncliffe, and succeeded so well that, with coffee and
a cigar, he wheeled his chair to secure a better light while he
scanned the news­paper in comfort.

Hence,
he was positively surprised when the maid brought a letter, correctly
addressed to him, and bearing the Arncliffe arms, a stag couchant
proper on a field d'or. But his surprise kindled into actual
amazement when he read:

"Dear
Sir: Simpson, the man who was present to-day when you met Dr. Smalley
in Lord Arncliffe's bedroom, has told me what you said. I was so
shocked and grieved by the death of one to whom I owe everything that
I failed at first to give your words their true significance. Now,
however, I feel it a sacred duty that I should acquaint you with
certain matters within my knowledge. I do not think I can ask you to
come to the Hall, and, in a small place like Arncliffe, it would
cause needless comment were I to call and see you at the inn. Can you
meet me at the East Lodge gate at nine o'clock? The terrible
occurrence of this afternoon must be my excuse for such an
unconventional request. Yours faithfully,

"EDITH
HOLT.

"P.
S. I have been Lord Arncliffe's secretary and amanuensis during the
past three years. I should add that it was to my assistance you came
to-day in the Fen Ghyll.

E.
H."

Although
not a man of hesitating mood, Lester drew a deep breath of dubiety
when he reached the end of this short but decisive note. There are,
in a man's life, certain rare moments of divination. They are
mysterious, occult, fleeting as the gleam of lightning in the depths
of a somber cloud. They carry an impalpable message of hidden fate,
so distinct as to be undeniable, yet so vague that no sane
intelligence can interpret them for good or evil. One of these
glimpses behind the veil of futurity was vouchsafed to him now, and
he wondered with unaccustomed awe what the portent signified. He was
sure that the tryst fixed for the ensuing hour would have an
uncontrollable influence on his career. Events were slowly but
inexorably conspiring to enmesh him within a web of exceeding
strength. Should he escape while yet the way was open?

A
polite refusal to meet this lovely "marquise," on the plea
that he was leaving Arncliffe at once, showed the path of expediency.
His eyes, fixed in thought, fell again on the letter: "The death
of one to whom I owe everything," she wrote. Once before that
day he had gone to her in a moment of distress. Should he refuse her
now in a greater need? George Lester might be a clever and
clear-sighted young man, nevertheless, he was a young man.

"Tell
the messenger I will keep the appointment," he said to the
waiting servant. "Or, perhaps, I had better write a note."

"Please,
sir, the boy said there was no answer. He has gone."

Then
Lester laughed. He was spared all hesi­tancy. It was intolerable
that Miss Edith Holt, the girl with the Greuze face and figure,
should be allowed to wait in vain outside the East Lodge for one who
came not.

"No
answer is the most conclusive of all answers," he said, and
smiled.

The
girl smiled, too, though she understood him not at all.

"He
is such a nice gentleman!" she confided to the kitchen maid, who
was dressed for going out.

"But
he looks at you sometimes as if he didn't see you."

"An'
that won't suit you," commented the other tartly, the house-maid
being the better looking of the pair.

"I'm
not used to it like you are, Lizzie," was the flippant retort.

Lizzie
glared, but curiosity conquered pique when her fellow-servant went
on:

"I've
just given him a note from the Hall. It was in a lady's handwriting.
I wonder who he knows there?"

"Who
brought it?"

"Jackson's
little boy." Jackson was a gardener employed on the Arncliffe
estate.

"If
I meet him I'll ask who sent it."

"It
was to make an appointment of some sort."

"You
don't say? I'll just hurry out. Mebbe I'll overtake him."

So
Lizzie hurried, and caught the Jackson urchin swapping marbles with
another boy on the outskirts of the village. But she failed to
extract any informa­tion from him, a largesse of sixpence having
insured discretion.

Lizzie
was baffled. She went to visit a friend, and it was one of the queer
coincidences of fate that she should happen to catch sight of George
Lester's tall figure as he strolled toward the park a few minutes
before nine o'clock.

"Well,
I must be off now," she cried, a sudden impulse moving her to
follow him.

"Why,
this is no time to go!" protested her gossip. "You needn't
be home yet for another hour or more."

"I've
got to meet me sweetheart," grinned Lizzie. "You told me he
was given a job in Newcastle as a porter."

"This
is a friend of his who takes care of me on his account," was the
jaunty reply, and Lizzie darted forth into the soft shadows of a fine
June night.

Within
the nearest gate of the park Lester saw Edith Holt. Though, of
course, she was attired in different garments from the summer-like
costume of their earlier meeting, he recognized her at the first
glance. She walked with a free elegance, and carried herself with a
distinction that would serve to single her out from a crowd anywhere.
Here, with never a rival, Edith Holt had the semblance of a rank far
higher than that accorded her by the landlord's chatter.

Being
neither a prude nor a gallant, Lester won­dered what their
strange meeting really meant. He realized that the girl must have
yielded to some powerful motive ere she wrote to him, and he felt,
too, that it lay with him to redeem her from the natural
embarrassment of their first exchange of words. Hence, the surprises
of that day of bewilder­ment were only increased when he found
that Miss Holt, who passed through the gate before he could reach it,
took the lead in their conversation.

"It
is very good of you to be so punctual," she said. "Shall we
walk this way?"

She
indicated the high road, leading away from the village.

"I
am entirely at your service," said Lester.

"I
need hardly apologize for my letter," she began again instantly.
"Most fortunately, you are a doc­tor, and, in grave trouble,
one turns to a doctor for help as instinctively as to a lawyer or a
clergyman."

"You
have my sympathy already, and believe me you shall have my best
counsel," said he.

Now,
the truth was that Lester was taken aback by the girl's demeanor. He
was in no way con­ceited, nor could his detractors, if such
existed, describe him as a "ladies' man." But that this
beautiful young woman should so calmly relegate him to the category
of fatherly gray-heads gave him a twinge of annoyance that none of
her sex had succeeded in inflicting before.

Utterly
unconscious of her own attitude, Edith Holt passed a hand over her
eyes as though to clear away a baffling mist.

"The
Earl was my only friend," she continued in a strained, nervous
manner which told how feverishly she was controlling her emotions. "I
did not exaggerate when I said that I owed every­thing in the
world to him. When my dear father died, nearly ten years ago, I was
left alone, a little girl of nine, but Heaven inspired my father on
his death-bed to write to his old school-fellow, Sir William
Bradshaw, as he was then, and ask him to care for me."

"Sir
William Bradshaw, the great cotton manu­facturer! Did he become
Earl of Arncliffe?"

"Yes,
only three years since. His gifts to the nation, his endowment of two
universities, brought him a peerage, which be accepted only as a
joke. 'It will inter me decently,' he used to say. 'People will
forget that such an old fossil as Bradshaw is still living.' My dear
old friend and benefactor! Who could have wished him harm?" She
stopped to choke back a sob.

Lester,
wishing to soothe her, said quietly: "Do not be too ready to
adopt my hasty conclusion, Miss Holt. Lord Arncliffe, whose career
is, of course, well known to me, was an old man. It is amazing to me
now to realize that I, too, owe him a certain measure of success in
my profession. It was Sir William Bradshaw who provided funds for the
Tropical Fevers Commission which came to West Africa —

"And
are you the Dr. George Lester who discovered the Micrococcus
Africanus?" she inter­rupted.

They
halted and gazed at one another with re­newed interest. As for
Lester, he was astounded. Not many young ladies of nineteen could
speak thus glibly of the tiny organism he had detected in the
fever-laden blood of a Congo nomad only a few months earlier. But the
transient gleam fled from the girl's brilliant eyes.

"Lord
Arncliffe followed your researches care­fully," she
explained. "I compiled a small record of them. How delighted he
would have been to talk to you! And now he is dead, and you have come
too late to save him! For you could have saved him, Dr. Lester. I
believe now he was poisoned. I am sure of it."

"It
is a difficult matter of which to speak so con­fidently. I may
have been mistaken, and I gather that the suspicion in your mind was
created only by my words."

"It
is hard to make things clear; but the Earl believed he was being
poisoned. He often hinted at it, especially of late. I fancied he was
giving way to the vagaries of old age, though, indeed, his fine
intellect might have shown me the folly of such a doubt. I assure
you, Dr. Lester, he strongly suspected, I may almost say he knew,
that some one was killing him. Oh! why did I not listen to him? Even
I might have helped a little bit to thwart a murderous design."

There
was no denying the girl's implicit faith. Her sorrowful eyes looked
up into the starlit sky. Her grief was such that the tears could not
be checked.

"That
is a very serious statement to make, Miss Holt. Can you help my
judgment by any specific fact? In a word, do you yourself suspect
any­body?"

Lester
felt that she would be calmer if recalled to the direct issue of the
tragedy. Nor was he un­prepared for her answer.

"Suspect?
I? You saw me to-day in the park, reading some stupid book in the
very hour when Lord Arncliffe was dying. Would I have been there were
I suspicious of a poisoner? I am in a maze, Dr. Lester, a maze of
terror. I am only certain of the one dreadful thing: some loathsome
creature has killed my friend."

They
were walking slowly along a road bordered, on one hand, by the dense
belt of fir-trees which guarded the park, and, on the other, by a
steep bank covered with brambles and hazel-bushes. Lester was not
aware that a foot-path traversed its higher ground — it was indeed
the ancient track of moss-trooping days superseded by a graded
highway. But a man who has led expeditions through the forests and
swamps of the Congo should possess hearing trained to a marvelous
degree where lurking foe or prowling beast is concerned. A slight
rustle of grass on the elevated path conveyed a warning, the first
time — there was no doubt the second.

"Pardon
me one moment," said he to his com­panion. Then he sprang
lightly up the bank, and peered through a dump of nut-trees. Edith
Holt heard a slight cry of dismay as Lester confronted the shrinking
form of the enterprising Lizzie.

"Why
are you trying to overhear our conversa­tion?" he demanded
sternly.

"Please,
sir, I wasn't," she stuttered, alternately blushing and paling.

"If
you are not a spy, you should not behave like one. Which way are you
going?"

"Back
to the village, sir."

The
words had scarcely left her lips before Lizzie realized her error.
She had practically admitted her eavesdropping tactics. Her face
burned as she turned and hurried away. But she was exceedingly angry,
and, with a queer, feline spite, she longed to revenge her
humiliation on the fair woman who had not even seen her.

"Who
is she, I'd like to know?" snorted the kitchen-maid. "With
all her fine airs an' her long words, she's only a servant like me."

She
was passing the lodge when the rhythmic beat of a horse's hoofs, hard
driven, came from the park. Being out of sight of Miss Holt and
Lester, she slackened her pace. The lodge-keeper opened the gate, and
Harry Warren drove through in a dog-cart.

An
elfish spirit of mischief moved the girl to cry out to him :

"Are
ye lookin' for Miss Holt, sir?"

"No,"
answered he in surprise; then, taking thought, he pulled up the
horse.

"Why
did you ask me that?" he went on sharply. Lizzie was demure. "I
only wanted to save you trouble, sir, in case ye were seekin' her."

"Miss
Holt is at the Hall," said he.

"Oh
no, she's not. She is welkin' up the road there, with Mr. Lester, a
gentleman who is stayin' at the 'Fisherman's Rest' "

The
vindictive note in her voice might have aston­ished the estate
agent if her statement had not set other speculations jarring in his
brain.

He
hesitated, handled the reins irresolutely as though minded to turn
the vehicle, but seemingly changed his half-formed intention, and
drove off at a rare rate toward the village. A groom, seated stiffly
on the back seat, watched the girl curiously until the trap whirled
him into the night.

"That's
one for her," said Lizzie with a sour smile. "And now I'll
give her another, if only I can find May Mannering."

The
railway-station, as in many English country districts, was situated a
needless half-mile away from the village, practically as far to the
east as the Hall lay to the west. Warren tore through the village
street and reached the station ten minutes too soon, his apparent
mission being to meet the last train due to arrive that night.

The
train was punctual, and an elderly man alighted from a first-class
carriage. He moved briskly enough, although his head and shoulders
had the student's stoop. His sharply cut, some­what wizened
features wore a distinctly legal aspect, and his remarkably bright
eyes, peering under heavy, white-haired brows, discerned Warren
standing on the platform long before the younger man could pick him
out amid the crowd of hurrying passengers.

The
newcomer was Mr. Aingier, of Aingier, Smith & Co., solicitors,
Grey Street, Newcastle, and King's Bench Walk, London. Aingier
greeted Warren cordially, but he had an imperative way with him, and
he showed it in his manner of ordering the groom to place a couple of
portmanteaus on the back of the dog-cart and walk to the Hall.

"I
wish to talk without a servant being a listener," he explained
to Warren. "But why are we travel­ing at such a pace?"
he demanded.

"The
mare is rather fresh," said Warren.

"So
it would appear. You must either moderate her ardor or I shall walk
with the groom."

Thus
admonished, Warren steadied the animal, and Aingier began to question
him. The estate agent gave an accurate account of events at the Hall,
and did not scruple to express his contempt for the view taken by
Lester as to the probable cause of the Earl's death.

But
Aingier was much interested.

"Who
is this young man?" he asked. "Where is he staying? Is he
known to any one locally?"

"I
never heard of him before to-day. As a matter of fact, if you wish to
see him, we may meet him on the road. I was told that Miss Holt and
he were walking together half an hour since."

"Miss
Holt? Is he a friend of hers?"

"Not
to my knowledge. I am almost sure that she, too, met him to-day for
the first time."

"This
is a very strange story, Mr. Warren."

"It
is, indeed."

"I
am not alluding to Miss Holt's penchant for an evening stroll with a
stranger. I am thinking of this Mr. Lester's statement. You are
aware, I suppose, that in addition to my partnership in a firm which
conducts Lord Arncliffe's legal affairs, I am one of the trustees
under his lordship's will. Under the circumstances, your
communication warrants me in divulging one, at least, of his
lordship's testamentary conditions somewhat in advance of the
ordinary course of events. Early in the present year my poor old
friend added a codicil to his will. I tried to dissuade him, and even
argued that he was indulging in a piece of folly which might have
most unpleasant results. But what you have now told me compels, as I
have said, a remarkable avowal. Lord Arncliffe, in his codicil,
deliberately states that some one was endeavoring to poison him. He
directs that, in the event of his sudden death, a post-mortem
examination shall be held by Home Office experts, and, finally, he
sets apart the sum of ten thousand pounds as a reward to the person
who, in the opinion of his trustees, is chiefly responsible for the
conviction of his murderer."